On Secret Service (43 page)

“You don't know how you hurt me. You can't imagine.”

In Franklin Square, wind blew dust clouds turned silver by the lightning. The thunder stayed far away in the Maryland mountains. Another storm would pass without rain.

Lon sat with a cigarette smoldering in his fingers. He'd thrown off his undertaker's coat and untied his cravat. Standing by a window, Margaret looked as neat and perfect as she had at Ford's. A hall clock chimed midnight.

“Lon, I have to know. Why didn't you come for me?”

“Because something terrible happened. I was responsible. Your brother, Cicero, was in New York—”

“I didn't keep it from you. I saw him in Gramercy Park, he came there.” A flying branch hit a windowpane, loud as a shot. She hadn't lit a lamp because of the almost constant lightning. The wind made the upper stories creak and moan. Lon found a marble tray for crushing out his cigarette.

“I tracked him down. It was my duty. I knew he was a Confederate agent and I found him in a place known to be a secesh hangout. When I tried to arrest him, he ran. I chased him. He went into a building set on fire during the riots. He must have been frightened, not thinking. I cornered him and he tried to kill me. I barely escaped before the building burned completely. He didn't get out.”

Margaret absorbed that. She reached behind her head, pulled out pins, and shook her hair so it fell rich and dark at her shoulders. Tiny white roses lay strewn around her skirt. “When you were imprisoned in Richmond, my brother tortured you, didn't he?”

“How do you know that? I never told you.”

“He did.”

“What?” Lon strode to her, trying to see her expression. She slipped around him, rattled a matchbox, lit a lamp. The cleavage at her bodice caused a reaction all wrong for this moment. He couldn't help it.

“Sit down, Lon. I'll tell you as much as I can.”

He reached for her hand but she avoided him, choosing a settee across the parlor. She settled herself, clasped her hands in her lap.

“Cicero didn't die in that fire. Like you, he escaped. But he suffered horrible burns. He's scarred, here”—she touched her throat—“and on this hand. It's done something to him. Made him worse than he was, if that's possible. I have difficulty facing the truth about my brother. He's a terrible man. Full of—I don't know. Poisons.”

“Where did you see him last?”

“Here. In this room.”

“When?”

“July. Right after Jubal Early's raid.”

“What was he doing in Washington? A spy mission?”

“I presume so. He was traveling under an assumed name, Hiram Seth. He carried on about saving the Confederacy single-handed. He talked about striking high. So high I'd be astonished. That was his word, astonished.”

“Striking what? A person? A building? The Capitol? The Executive Mansion? We've had reports of reb agents in Canada plotting to start more fires in New York. Something like that?”

“Lon, I swear to you, he didn't say. He threatened me, and not very subtly.”

“Threatened you how?”

“I understood him to mean there'd be reprisals if I repeated anything he said. I'm afraid Cicero is deranged. I can hardly think of him as my flesh and blood anymore. He's some sick, warped thing who delights in hurting people. He justifies it by saying they're enemies.”

“I'm afraid you're not far wrong there.” Lon gazed into Franklin Square, deserted in the blustery autumn night.

“You didn't come for me in New York because you thought you were responsible for his death?”

He walked to the settee. The scent of rose petals swirled around him.

“How could I face you? Live with you? I couldn't.”

“God, this war breaks people like crockery. Look what it's done to us. Ruined us. Ruined me.”

He sat beside her, not touching her, though he felt the palpable warmth of her body. “Margaret, you wanted a blood price for your father. You wanted to punish someone. It's understandable.”

“I know, but it was wrong.” She struck her fist on her knee. “Stupid. I never had the stomach for it. I'm not that sort of woman. I thought I was and I'm not.”

“But you spied for them.”

“It was a game. A lady's and gentleman's entertainment, with Rose leading it. Rose is gone. She drowned trying to reach Wilmington, did you know?”

“Yes, the papers wrote it up thoroughly.”

“The war changed, didn't it? It isn't a game any longer. I found that out.”

“So did I. So did every West Point general who said it wouldn't last ninety days. So did every reb dandy who put on a plumed hat and rode off on a noble crusade. The war changed and it changed everybody.” He was so tense he felt pain in his arms and legs. He knotted his hands between his knees.

“I'm not unlike your brother anymore, Margaret. I've come to enjoy hurting enemies. It's partly from wanting to win, partly paying back for friends I lost. Most of all I think it's the work itself. The lies. The deceit. The thuggery. You get used to it. One of my dead friends, a detective named Greenglass, warned me. He said dirt rubs off. I didn't listen.”

She clasped her arms across her breasts, bowing her head. He feared he'd anger her if he touched her, but he couldn't stay his hand. He laid it gently on hers. She looked up. Lightning showed tears streaming down.

They sat unmoving for a few seconds. Then, as if surrendering to some magnetic force, she lunged forward at the same moment he did. Their arms tangled, and their mouths met in hunger and longing.

 

Upstairs, in the warm and drowsy aftermath of lovemaking, he managed a wry smile when he said, “I believe I've overlooked a question that might have some bearing on this reunion. Where's your husband?”

“In some woman's bed, probably.” She kissed the corner of his lips. “Who gives a damn?”

“You're still married, aren't you?”

“Not for long. Donal will sue for divorce. I've heard from his lawyers.”

She turned on her back, nestled against his ribs. He drew up the starched sheet and rested his hand on her bare breast underneath.

“I have to go on with my work.”

“I assumed you would.”

“But I won't give you up. Not again. We'll have our own armistice, till it's over.”

“Until the South surrenders?”

“Yes. Surrender's inevitable. The South can fight on for a while yet, but they don't have the men, nor the resources, to prevail.”

“Were we wrong to secede and go to war?”

“Yes. All the rhetoric about states' rights and preserving a heritage, a way of life—a person can swallow some or all of that, maybe. But one hard lump won't go down. Slavery. It's evil. It must end.”

“When do you think it will be over?”

“Next year, I hope. Sooner if we're lucky.”

“Can we keep our truce that long?”

“By God I'll try.”

“So will I.”

He didn't dare tell her that he'd pursue Cicero to the end; use force to apprehend him if necessary, especially after the revelation about some great plan. A last flicker of lightning whitened the ceiling and died. They lay together in darkness as deep and impenetrable as the future.

 

Later that morning, Lon informed Lafayette Baker of Cicero's appearance in Washington. Before he left Margaret's bed he told her that he would. She was silent, neither granting permission nor withholding approval.

Baker copied Lon's description of Miller's injuries into a voluminous file of suspected agents of the Confederate Signal Service. “I'll advise Lamon that Miller was seen here. I can't imagine he stayed, but we'll be watchful. Whatever scheme he's hatching will probably require local accomplices.”

“I agree,” Lon said. “But who are they? How do we find them?”

Neither man could answer the questions.

 

Lon examined the locks on the front and rear doors of the town house and declared they weren't adequate. He bought new ones at a hardware, descended to the dank cellar for tools, came up empty-handed, and returned to the store. One morning when he wasn't on White House duty, he removed the old locks and replaced them with the new, which had heavy dead bolts. Margaret repaid him with a sumptuous breakfast of eggs with ham, grits, and biscuits she'd baked herself.

For Christmas he bought her a gift that puzzled her when she opened the lacquered presentation box.

“It's a Colt .31-caliber. Excellent weapon, I owned one for a while. It'll fit nicely in your handbag. We'll go down to the flats behind the Executive Mansion and I'll teach you how to fire it.”

“I have a derringer. Why on earth do I need another gun?”

“Because a derringer's only good for one shot. Because you live by yourself and I can't be here all the time. Because Grant's easing the ban on prisoner exchanges and the streets are full of Union boys who haven't seen a woman for months. Because there are nearly as many Confederate deserters in town. Because I love you.”

Margaret kissed him. The discussion ended there.

Washington celebrated the New Year with an optimism that sickened Booth. The damned tyrant in the White House had won reelection handily. Richmond still believed Lincoln could be used to bargain for peace terms, though not to free Confederate prisoners; Grant was allowing exchanges again.

By telegraph, the despicable General Sherman gave the President a Christmas gift—the seaport city of Savannah. Sherman's army, and a second army of bummers following it, had laid waste to Georgia. Now “Cump” Sherman was ready to carry his vicious program of total war to the Carolinas. The damned nigger-loving Congress was ramming through a constitutional amendment to abolish slavery. The whole world was being turned upside down, but the second American Revolution was failing. Booth's beloved South was careening toward defeat, surrender, humiliation. As this became ever more certain, his hatred of the chief culprit grew and grew.

On a gray January morning, dejected and battling a headache, he dressed for the street with the military touches he'd begun to affect: brass cavalry spurs, gauntlets, a Jeff Davis hat of dark gray felt with a black plume and the left brim looped up.

His career no longer interested him to the degree it once had. He'd done Romeo at Grover's recently, but he acted by rote, though somewhat more soberly than his late father, who liked to boast that he could play any role in the repertory of Shakespearean leading men dead drunk. Which he often did.

Let the others in the family take the glory: his older brother Edwin, who possessed the discipline he lacked, or his brother June—Junius Booth Jr.—who showed a strong interest in theater management. As the runt of the litter, Booth had always cared more for the fame, and the women, than for the hard work demanded by his craft. Now, at twenty-six, he was obsessed with his great mission.

To carry it out, he'd assembled a small group of conspirators, the best he could find. Samuel Arnold and Michael O'Laughlin were boyhood friends from Maryland. O'Laughlin was flamboyant and darkly handsome, Arnold quiet and plain. Arnold clerked in his brother's feedstore, O'Laughlin worked as a common farmhand. Both were ex-soldiers.

Booth had recruited buck-toothed Davy Herold with his simple mind and silly grin because Herold knew the back roads and byways of southern Maryland from hunting trips. Atzerodt, the little German from Port Tobacco, knew the Potomac currents. He worked as a carriage maker but soldiered for the cause as a secret ferryman.

And there was Johnny Surratt, whose mother ran the boardinghouse where they met, though never more than two or three of them at a time. None had met all the others, nor would they unless it became necessary. Booth deemed that a good way to protect the operation.

They were adequate men, but not ideal. Atzerodt and Herold were brainless, Arnold occasionally headstrong and argumentative. The group lacked a good soldier whom Booth could send out to kill someone, knowing he'd carry out the assignment. This lack was one of many things about the scheme that sent Booth to the liquor supply as early as eight or nine every morning.

“Johnny?” Ella whined from the bedroom. “Are you going out?”

He flung a cloak over his shoulders. Lord, how the sitting room stank. Soiled shirts and undergarments were draped on chairs or discarded in the corner. A half dozen whiskey bottles decorated the desk. He refused to have the chambermaid prying in his quarters and relied on Ella to clean up once or twice a week. The slut did a poor job of it.

“I'm going to Ford's,” he called. His colleague Forrest was playing
Jack Cade
tonight. Booth wanted to book the presidential box one more time, to study it further.

“We haven't ate breakfast.”

“Go to the dining room. Sign the bill.”

Ella wrapped her pudgy body around the doorframe and pouted. Her gaudy dressing gown fell open. He saw the aroused state of her nipples and wrinkled his nose.

“I want you again, Johnny. Don't go.”

“For Christ's sake, Ella, we fucked half the night. I'm tired. I have other things on my mind.”

She lifted her wrapper to show her privates. “Johnny, please, don't go away. You've gotten very strange lately, hanging out with all those shiftless men.”

“Shut up, shut up!” Booth lunged to the desk, lobbed a nearly empty bottle at her. Ella shrieked and ducked. The bottle broke on the wall, scattering shards of glass. The liquor stained the wallpaper as it ran down.

“Oh, you've got a terrible temper, Johnny, terrible.” Ella peeped around the doorframe, ready to dart back if he threw something else. Booth smoothed his mustache with a trembling hand, pointed to the broken glass.

“Have that cleaned up when I come back.”

 

That afternoon, in a coffeehouse at the edge of the Northern Liberties, he met Sam Arnold. They chose a corner table, away from other patrons.

“We will execute our plan two days from now, Wednesday, the eighteenth,” Booth said. “Forrest is acting Jack Cade again. It's a play Lincoln likes.”

“Why?”

“How the hell do I know? I'm not his confidant. Jack Cade leads a revolt of bondsmen. Maybe the ape sees slaves turning on their masters.”

Arnold frowned at his crockery mug, the coffee untasted. “I have the same objection as always. How do we know he'll attend? Sometimes the papers don't announce it till late afternoon. Sometimes they don't announce it at all.”

“It's a chance we must take. Ford's is the ideal place.”

“Johnny, I keep telling you, it is
not
the ideal place. Abducting him from a theater, especially Ford's, is not smart. The box at Ford's has no separate stairway. The only way out's through the dress circle.”

“We'll truss him and lower him from the box to the stage. It's a drop of only twelve feet. I can jump it easily.”

“We'll do that with a grown man?”

Ashen, Booth whispered, “Will you keep your damned voice down?”

“Sorry, sorry. But it's a fair question. What if he struggles? He's big.”

“He's a weakling. Half sick most of the time.”

“There's always a bodyguard.”

“You'll take care of him with a gun. We'll station Michael at the controls of the gas, next to the prompter's table. He'll black out the theater as soon as Linc—our man reaches the stage. Davy will hold the horses at the back door. I suppose he's not too stupid to do that,” Booth added with a disdainful toss of his head.

Sam Arnold pushed his mug away. “I don't like it. I won't do it. That's my answer, Johnny. I won't do it unless we take him out of doors, where we have a better chance.”

“God damn it—God
damn
it, Sam”—two grandmotherly ladies seated by the front window turned to stare—“this is
my
plan, to carry out as I see fit.”

“Is that right, Johnny? I thought it was Richmond's plan.”

Booth's hand flew sideways, knocking both coffee mugs to the floor. The mop-haired old man who owned the place lumbered from the kitchen. “What's this? Who's tearing up my—? Oh, Booth, it's you. Might have known.”

The actor dug greenbacks from his pocket, threw them at the old man. “If you don't want my patronage, plenty of others welcome it.” He snatched his plumed hat from the next table, glared at Sam Arnold, and marched to the door, brass spurs jingling.

The old man got down on his knees with a rag. “Those Booths, they're all crazy. Your friend's the worst.”

Arnold said, “They don't call them the mad Booths of Maryland for nothing.”

 

On Wednesday night, January 18, Lincoln did not attend the performance at Ford's. Not that it would have made any difference. Sam Arnold's objection prevented Booth from implementing the kidnaping.

He sent Arnold a note saying they would go at it differently, try to abduct Lincoln from his carriage, at the first opportunity. Booth could barely bring himself to surrender that way, but pragmatically, he had no choice. He needed Arnold. He needed all of them, even though not one of them was adequate to the task.

 

Muffled to the eyes against the blowing rain, Booth failed to see the man huddled by the National's front door. “Cap'n? Cap'n Booth?” The man stepped out. They collided.

“You damned cretin, you nearly knocked me down.”

“Cap'n, I'm mighty sorry. I been waitin' half the day, hopin' you'd come by.” Huge dark eyes sunken in pale flesh peered at him with childlike entreaty. The young man's broad, flat nose and overhanging brow gave his face a moronic cast. “Don't you recognize me?”

“No, and I'm thankful. Stand aside or—”

“Cap'n,” the other interrupted, “we met down South. You was playin' a theater in Montgomery, Alabama.”

A faint recollection stirred. “What's your name?”

“Paine, sir. Lewis Paine.” A swift look along the rainy sidewalk; no one was paying attention, not even to the famous Mr. Booth. Paine crowded close in a way Booth found offensive.

“When I met you after the show and we had a real nice drink in your dressing room, the name was Lewis Powell. Powell, he was a soldier. Lately he was in Mosby's command, but he got sick of it. And don't you know, one day last week at Fairfax Court House, Powell just up and disappeared. Lost his uniform an' all. The Union soldiers takin' care of refugees said, ‘What's your name, boy?' and I said, Lewis Paine.”

A deserter, then. “Well, I do remember you, Mr. Paine, but you'll have to excuse me, I have business.”

“Oh. I was just hopin' we could have another drink, so's I could ask how you been. I know you're more famous than ever. I always been proud to say I'm a friend of the great Mr. John W. Booth. But I understand about business, Captain.” Looking sad, Paine held out his hand to conclude the conversation.

Suddenly Booth forgot the chilly rain, the dampness soaking him to the skin. The young man was splendidly built, obviously strong. Booth guessed he was also utterly stupid, but taken with Booth's celebrity.

And he needed an obedient soldier.

He smiled his most radiant and winning smile. “Mr. Paine, I apologize for being rude to an old friend. My business can wait an hour. We certainly must have a drink in memory of that pleasant meeting in Montgomery.”

“We can go to the saloon bar, I'll pay,” Paine exclaimed.

“Oh, no, Mr. Paine, no.” Booth, the shorter, had to strain to throw an arm across Paine's broad back. “We'll drink some of the fine whiskey I keep in my suite. It's my pleasure. Come along, sir. I can't tell you how happy I am to see you again.”